Mr Jingeling
by AzureEyedI
Summary: Rosalie Hale, unlucky at love is stuck behind the gift-wrap counter at Mr. Jingeling's Christmas Workshop, annoyed by the antics of his Chief "Elf", but is there more to him than meets the eye? Popular vote winner of the That Thing Called Love contest!


**Stephanie Meyer/Twilight/Yeah, me too.**

**Kevin Raleigh owns "He Can't Love You."**

**Michael Stanley and Bob Pelander own "Falling In Love Again."**

**Thanks to my fabulous betas – KiyaRaven, Reagan O'Connor and TwirlGrrl. I couldn't have written this without all three of you holding my little bear paws. Kisses and motorboating!**

**AND Thanks to all who voted Mr. Jingeling into a first place finish in the popular vote portion of the "That Thing Called Love" contest - Dating Game Kisses to you all! **

***~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~***

**This is for Deanna.**

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The Place: Mister Jingeling's Christmas Workshop at Higbee's Department Store, Cleveland, Ohio

The Time: Christmas 1986

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Look at him.

Goofing around with all those snot-nosed brats waiting in line to sit in Mister Jingeling's lap to beg him for toys they don't frickin' deserve, like a bunch of rabid hyenas; laughing and acting like he's eight or something, just like them.

Ridiculous.

##

Jesus, will this day never frickin' end? How the hell did I let my Keebler-Elf-From-Hell roommate talk me into this?

I stand on this hard marble floor in my four-inch heels for eight frickin' hours a day, toes smashed like moldy potatoes into the Wicked Witch of the West points and by the time I get home I have to stick Band-Aids on top of the Band-Aids already there on my pinky toes, they hurt so much from the blisters. Can I wear my tennies? Oh no, not according to the Higbees Dress Code For Seasonal Employees, Especially If That Employee Is A Woman.

I don't mind heels, but this is just...Ridiculous.

Eight frickin' hours a day I do this, five days a week; wrapping gifts for customers who can't make up their frickin' mind if they want the Frosty The Snowman paper or the Happy Holidays one. Then once they've made up their minds about that, they have to rattle their empty suburban heads and decide on a ribbon, and let me tell you, for some of these broads, you'd think they had to decide between whether to push that Red Nuclear Button or not.

It's just frickin' ribbon, for Christ's sake.

God, I hate this job.

And Mister Hardy Har Har with the close-cropped hair and football player build yukking it up over there isn't helping, either. I catch him shooting glances over at me, in between making some brat laugh and flirting with their mothers, dressed in their polyester stretch pants and that awful Quiana fabric they delude themselves as being real silk covering their sagging funbags. Watch as they titter and giggle when he winks at them, like they're back in high school.

Ridiculous.

##

Finally.

Got my feet propped on the coffee table swathed in a new layer of Band-Aids, pink fake-fur bathrobe and a glass of Chablis in my right hand. Gonna see what's on TV tonight, try to forget about wrapping paper and toasters and underwear that nobody will appreciate.

Who the hell buys underwear as a Christmas present anyway?

I'll tell you who: Great-aunts who don't understand that their seventeen-year-old great nieces would rather get the latest Duran Duran or New Order album or something from Merry-Go-Round that's denim, tight, acid-washed and flared.

That's who.

I close my eyes, take another sip of the bargain wine-in-a-box and sigh. I can hear Alice and Bella as they slam dresser drawers and dig through their closets, looking for shoes and boots to wear tonight, when they meet Jasper and Edward at The Kenilworth, that bar with the white pressed-tin ceiling around the corner from our apartment here in Lakewood.

I'm not going; why should I? I'd be the fifth wheel, the hanger-on. The Girl Every One Feels Sorry For.

Let's face it. Since Royce literally told me to hit the road, I've had no interest in going anywhere, especially if there were members of the opposite sex in the vicinity.

Why bother? Men are shit.

Seeing how happy the four of them are together just reminds me how alone I am.

Again.

Ridiculous.

##

Royce. That bastard.

The man responsible for breaking my heart and my hymen, not in that exact order; he did a great job of destroying both of them.

I met Royce when I was working in the promotions department for the Cleveland Browns; he was the son of the president of National City Bank. We took one look at each other at a charity function that some of the players were attending at Jim Swingo's Bar and Hotel and that was it, we were hooked.

Right up into his suite, the Bogart one, top floor right corner, of Swingo's, overlooking Lake Erie.

Oh, I overlooked Lake Erie that night, plenty of times.

Royce was my first real boyfriend; what did I know that some of them could be such slimebags? Guys always seemed afraid of me, just because one night when my parents got that gleam in their eye, nine months later I popped out, all blonde and blue-eyed and having been blessed with a rack that other women paid big bucks for and a face that stopped traffic. Literally.

Guys always assumed that I was spoken for, and girls always assumed I was a bitch.

So why disappoint them? Other than Alice, Bella, Jasper, and Edward, I didn't have any other friends, and I kinda liked it that way; knew they liked me for me, not for my face or my knockers.

Ridiculous.

##

Back to Royce, that bastard.

Royce wined me and dined me, told me all the right things, all the words a girl wants to hear from her Prince Charming: How beautiful I was, a fabulous combination of brains and beauty, how I was the only woman for him, how he wanted to have a whole army of kids with me. Told me everything I wanted to hear and believe, how he'd love me forever blahblahblah.

Yeah, he loved me forever all right.

Right up to the night he informed me, four weeks after our engagement, that he had met someone else, and that he wanted out, thanks for allowing him the honor of popping my cherry so he could earn his Vadge Badge, and hey, keep the ring.

He sure did meet someone else.

That 'someone else' was, in his words, 'an exotic entertainer' who went by the name Tinkerbell Gladiola.

In my words, she was a 'stripper' from The Crazy Horse Saloon whose real name was Kelly Dougan, and had a Jersey accent as thick as the mud oozing along the moat of Monkey Island at the Cleveland Zoo.

I bet her pussy smelled as nasty as Monkey Island, too.

That was eight months ago, and I haven't been on a date since.

What's the point?

Men are shit.

Ridiculous.

##

"Rosalie?"

Bella. Bella Swan; my college roommate, second best friend, and Edward's girlfriend.

Watching the two of them together makes both my heart and my stomach ache they're so happy and sickly sweet together.

He's just so damned nice to her; opens car doors for her, pushes her chair in when they're at a table, even if we're all together playing poker on a Saturday night here in our dining room; hell, he even puts the toilet seat down when he spends the night.

Ack, don't get me started on that. I stuff three pillows over my head whenever he spends the night.

It just hurts too much to hear them, listening to them loving each other.

The way I thought Royce loved me.

"Rosalie? Are you okay honey?"

No, I'm not. Please, leave me to my misery and my Chablis.

"Yeah. I'm fine, Bella. What's up?"

I still have my eyes closed, trying to send out a not-too-subtle signal of "Leave me the fuck alone." I hear her flicking through the pages of the latest issue of Scene magazine she picked up on her way home from work tonight.

"Alice and I want you to go out with us tonight. It'll be fun. I promise."

Open my eyes, and glance over at her, then down to the newsprint in her hands, leaving smudges of black on those dainty little paws of hers, fingernails bitten to the quick.

"Fun? Watching the four of you having a great time together, the guys with their arms around you two? Oh yeah, that'll be a fucking blast, Bella. No thanks, I have my friend Mr. Cribari here, we'll have ourselves a gay old time, just like the Flintstones." Raise my wine glass and swirl around the amber liquid, which is starting to make my cheeks flush red.

She lets out a huge breath, shakes her head at me; she's determined and she won't give up this time, I can tell. She's tapping her right index finger against the paper in her lap, tap-tap-tap, knowing that drives me insane.

"Rosalie Hale. This isn't good, sitting around here feeling sorry for your self. You're going out with us tonight, and that's that. Who knows, you might run into some guy, maybe meet someone. It's Christmas, lots of guys are home for the holidays and stuff." Trudges onward, good little soldier of Cupid she is.

I snort. "Meet someone? What, another prize like Royce? No thank you, Bella, I'll pass, I'm happy right here on the couch, me and My MTV."

"Oh really Miss Hale? That's too bad, since you've been doing so well here on your own, every weekend. How's that working' out for you? I don't see Simon LeBon or John Taylor beating down your door."

Freaking Bella Swan, goading me. Damn, she knows how to chap my ass.

"Oh yeah, Swan? I don't see Dostoyevsky banging down your door, either, just your perfect boyfriend, Mister Too Good For This World".

And as soon as those dulcet words leave my trap, I regret them.

Bella looks like she's been slapped with a leather strap across her face, the blood rushing to her cute little cheeks, bringing a rosy flush to her skin, the redness only matched by the fury and hurt in her eyes, the tears bubbling just above her soft lower lashes.

"Oh Jesus, Bella, I'm so sorry. I, I, I shouldn't have said that about Edward. He's not a dickweed, I'm so sorry."

Shit.

She tightens her mouth, biting down on her lower lip; if I swung the other way, I'd say she was cute when she does that, but I'm not, so she doesn't; she just looks pissed off, and practically hisses at me.

"Fine, Rosalie. Stay here and wallow in your self-pity with that Thunderbird In A Box, while the rest of the world and your friends move on with their lives. I hope you have a blast with your new pals, Cirrhosis of the Liver and Mottled Skin, I'm sure you'll all be very happy together. " Bella bounces up, headed back towards our bedrooms, through the kitchen, then stops in the doorway and cocks her head to the right, shaking it at me in disgust. "Oh, and don't worry about Mister Too Good For This World staying here tonight. I'm spending the weekend over in the Heights with him, so we won't disturb your beauty sleep."

Fuck. Me.

Bella has never spoken to me this way, ever, even at Bowling Green. Bella Swan just delivered the verbal ass kicking I'd needed since April. Damn...

"Swan! Hold up!" I am not about to let Little Miss Chocolate Eyes and Hair get the better of me, no frickin' way.

"What, Rosalie?" Annoyed with me, rolling her eyes while standing by our shared bathroom, the one with the original 1923 black and white tiled floor; some of those idiots in Strongsville pay big bucks to have those installed in their McMansions out there now.

"Can I borrow that red v-neck sweater of yours, the cabled Forenza one from The Limited?"

Bella's anger disappears as quickly as the breeze over the Cuyahoga River in the spring, replaced by that smile that stole Edward Cullen's heart when he came home from Notre Dame for Christmas break our senior year of college, when Alice and I brought her home with us; they've been together ever since.

"Absolutely, Hale. Let's rock."

My feet are killing me, I have a slight buzz on, it's cold and snowing outside and I'm going to be the fifth wheel tonight but I don't care, I'm going to go out and force myself to have fun, even if it frickin' kills me.

Ridiculous.

##

I'm pulling on my navy blue wool coat, the one with the wooden toggles that's out of fashion but is still my favorite, since it accentuates the color of my eyes, when Bella glances over at me from the entry way with that stupid smirk of hers that I swear she's picked up from Edward, while tapping a concert listing in the Scene with her jagged fingernail, practically shoving the damned thing in my face.

"Rosie, Edward scored four tickets from Jeff and Flash to see the Michael Stanley Band next weekend at the Agora, you know, their Christmas Ball show?"

"Ye-ah? So?" I have a feeling this is going into My Boyfriend Has A Friend That You Should Meet territory. I bet Edward does, probably some fellow dork med student buddy of his over at Case Western, the kind of guy who probably smells like BO and unwashed socks.

"Sooo, I was thinking that Edward and I and you and his new roommate could double date! Wouldn't that be fun?!" Bella's enthusiasm about this 'date' is about as exciting to me as contracting genital herpes.

"Ah, I dunno, Bella, he'd probably take one look at me and think 'high maintenance, see ya!'"

"No, no, no Rosie, Edward's new roomie isn't like that at all, he's actually the kind of guy you like." Now Alice has joined in the fun, tag-teaming me with Bella. Christ, can we please move to the door, ladies, it's frickin' stifling in here; I can feel the sweat start rolling down my back, ick.

"What kind is that, Alice? The kind that says one thing trying to get into my pants while lying through his teeth?"

Alice and Bella both roll their eyes simultaneously at my feeble protests. What are they, telepathic now? Jesus...

"Honestly Rosie Posey, have some faith in yourself; not all men are shits. Besides, he's into football and Led Zeppelin, you'd have something in common to talk about."

Rosie Posey. Thanks Alice, now I feel like we're both ten years old again and in Mrs. Gottschalk's fourth grade class, passing notes back and forth about that slut, Jill Goodyshultz.

And I bet she still is, still showing off for the boys, zipping and unzipping that little dress of hers in class like she did when no adults were around.

The two of them stand in front of our apartment door, my only escape from their evil scheme to inject some light back into my love life, grinning like a pair of jacktard windowlickers. There's only one way out, and it sure as hell ain't the bathroom window.

"Alright. I'll do it. But I'm telling you both, if he's got glasses held together with duct tape and is a mouthbreather you owe me, big."

Bella and Alice jump up and down like it's Christmas morning after discovering that Santa left them both a real, live pony shitting in the living room of the Cullen's split level in Parma.

As we leave our building, turning right to walk up Kenilworth towards Detroit, Bella and Alice hold my hands, sandwiching me between them, swinging our arms and skipping in the snow, dragging me along, singing "He can't love you like I love you" at the top of their lungs.

I close my eyes, trying to tamper the nausea rising from my stomach; must be the upcoming 'entertainment' I've allowed myself to be roped into.

I fucking hate Michael fucking Stanley Band.

Ridiculous.

##

All things considered, the evening was a rousing success.

That is, if you consider making an absolute ass out of yourself in front of your four closest friends, your ex-fiance and most of the under-thirty crowd in Lakewood, Ohio a rousing success; since if you do, then I am guilty as charged.

And it had started out so well, nicely.

Edward and Jasper were already there by the time we hit the door, having commandeered a table large enough for our group, back in the far left corner, away from the bar bowling machine, but close enough to the ladies room that we girls wouldn't have to plow our way through the holiday crowd when we needed to.

I had actually started to relax and, God forbid, enjoy myself, jabbering happily away with Edward and Bella, and trying not to notice when he'd nuzzle her hair with his nose, or when she'd squeeze his thigh with her little paw, the one that was just begging for an engagement ring to be placed on it.

Then Jasper started telling me about grad school, and his plans to start research on some little-known Civil War battle that occurred on the Texas-Mexico border that involved some woman named Maria or something like that. Alice would tease Jasper of loving that long dead woman more than her, which made him blush, and really brought out his soft West Texas drawl, which the three of us girls just swooned over him when he did.

"Rosalie, after the holidays think you'd want to help me out with some research? Alice told me that you're a wiz at working with all these new computers and stuff."

Whew, it's getting really warm in here, why did I wear that red sweater of Bella's, I should have worn something else.

"What Jazz? Did you say something?" He's sitting right across the table from me, but it's like he's a million miles away, his voice is so faint through the crowd noise.

I see Alice turn and say something to him, but I can't quite make it out, but whatever it is, she's giving me these really dirty looks, like I'm too loud or something.

Whatever Keebler Elf from Hell. You get Mister Bucking Bronco to play Jockey with and I get my right hand tonight to buff the muff, fuck you.

Look down at the table, where did that Bartles and James appear from I don't remember ordering another one, I swear I'm starting to see double, there was one sitting in front of me, now there's two.

"Hello Rosie Girl, enjoying your drink?"

I look up right into the pair of eyes of one Royce Michael Devlin, swaying in front of me scrutinizing me like an evil Mad Hatter.

Fuck. Me.

Ridiculous.

##

"WhaddafuckyouwantRoysche?"

Who said that? "Roysche"?

He continues to stand there, Missy Augmented Tits 1985 behind him, must be slow business at The Crazy Horse for her not to be working the pole tonight. Either that or she's doing private shows now for Mister Dickwad swaying in front of me.

Oh, he's not swaying, that's...me?

"Just wanted to stop by and wish you a Merry Christmas, Rosie, that's all. How are you?"

How am I?

Well, dickwad, let me tell you. I'm fucking miserable, that's what I am, what did you expect, that I'd be dancing around a May Pole, all happy and smiling?

Except that when that comes out of my mouth, it sounds more like: Welldishwad, lemmetellya, Imafucking misherable, thatwhaiam, whadyaspect, danshingroundmaypo, happandschmiling?

Royce stares at me like I've got three heads or something, then mutters something to Miss Big Tits and pulls her away from me.

"Fine dickwad, run away, go ahead, I don't care, you can't hurt me, I'm Rosalie Hale!"

"Ah, Rosalie, would you like some water?" Edward looks all concerned and doctorish at me, frowning from beneath that messy thatch of hair of his.

And that's when it hits me.

I gotta leave, and I gotta leave NOW!

Bolting up from my seat, all I know is that I have to get out out out of here, back home, back to my bed, to go to sleep and that when I wake up, all of this will be just a dream, right, it's just a dream, and my head won't be pounding and my stomach won't feel like a vat of viscous venom is churning round and round in there.

Which is when I plow head first into someone large, tall, and built like the thick walls of the Ford plant over on Brookpark Road, promptly hurling the contents of my heaving stomach onto his new Nike Air Commanders. I choke and cough, sputter and spew all the anguish and alcohol and my lunch and what passed for dinner, Cheez Wiz and Ritz crackers, finally stopping when I feel two pairs of hands grabbing me under my arms, hauling me upwards, my vision headed towards the pretty white pressed-tin ceiling.

But not before staring straight into the eyes of Mister Jingeling's chief helper, that idiot from Higbee's.

Fuck. Me.

Ridiculoush...

##

"Whoa there. Hey! I know you! You're Gift Wrap Girl!"

Not only does it leer at me, it speaks too!

"Ma name ish not 'Giftwapgrrrl, ma name ish Rosary Fuckin' Hale, ya big monkeyman!"

Jesus, is that me? I swear I would never speak to anyone that way, especially that fool grinning at me like he's found a winning Ohio Lottery Jackpot ticket.

"Well, whatever your name is, I think maybe you've been over served."

But he doesn't say that in a snide or mean way, more like he's amused by my dishelved appearance and slurred speech.

"Jeshus, yer a big monkeyboy, shorry bout yer shewsh" I mutter; my neck suddenly no longer is capable of holding my head upright; my hair draping my face like Salome's veils, except I'm pretty sure hers were never drenched in puke and snot.

The remainder of the evening was a blur; I vaguely remember hearing Monkey Man laughing, hear his 'Hey no problem bro, happens to the best of us" and "Oh definitely, we're still on for next Saturday, right?" to someone, then feeling myself being half pulled and half carried down the slushy sidewalk, turning left down Kenilworth, toward my warm bed, that nice clean toilet that I bet I'll be well acquainted with once I'm there.

"Jesus, Edward, how many did she have?" Jasper.

"I don't know Jazz, but we'll get her home, cleaned up, safe in bed, the girls are driving the car back, they'll take care of her." Edward.

"Jaspher? Oh Jaspher, I alwaysh feel so musch bedder when you're awound me." I hear myself murmur to Alice's jockey, smiling and hiccupping in his face, my breath stinking of vomit and fermented sugar. "Tell me Jaspher, howyoudodat? Are you some kinna wizawd? Are you a sochewer?"

"No, darlin', not a wizard, just a grad student", but I can hear the smile in his voice as he props me up against the hallway wall as Edward opens the foyer door, then pressing the elevator button.

"Edwawd, oh Eddie, Imsoshorry, so shorry, I wish I wash Bella, shes susha lucky girl, Imsoshorry. I can feel my batteries wearing down; we're almost to our door.

"What's she talking about, Edward?"

"Ah, she had a crush on me back in high school, but like an idiot I blew her off, ended up with some skank."

"Yesh, ya shure did, Eddie, dat Lauren wazzername..." and with that, everything goes black.

Ridiculoush...

##

God, my eyes hurt; who turned the sun on in my room? And who let that cat shit in my mouth?

And why are my roommates staring at me? What time is it anyway?

"Oh, uh, hello girls." I'm mortified by my behavior last night.

That was last night, wasn't it?

Alice and Bella grin at me, in unison. Ach, there's that telepathy thing again.

"Well, we know she's alive, Alice. That's a plus."

"Barely." Alice sniffs a bit when she says this, but I can see that huge pixie grin of hers through the slits that pass as my eyelids against the blinding light of my bedside Cinderella lamp.

"How ya feeling, champ?" Bella continues Team Grin, offering me an orange plastic tumbler of water, along with two aspirins.

Ah, Nirvana: Hydration and medication.

"Like crap, in more ways than one." I struggle to sit up, but the dizziness overtakes me and I plop myself back onto my pillows, which smell like Winston Golds and puke. Lovely.

"I bet. Drink this, then let's get you into the shower, get you looking human again. You're so pale ya look like a vampire." Bella giggles in spite of her self as she says this. Oh ha ha ha, Swan, you're a regular Joan Rivers.

When I've finally assumed a vertical position, and managed to combine hydrotherapy with personal hygiene, I pad into our living room, where the girls are eating lunch and watching Bananarama on MTV.

"Uh, girls, did I, uh, barf on somebody last night?" I so do not want to hear that I did, but I have this vague recollection of heaving my guts over somebody large, tall, and male.

The two of them exchange an Okay, Who's Gonna Tell Her? look.

Alice shrugs her shoulders in defeat as I ease myself on the couch, holding my head in my cupped hands to prevent it from snapping off my neck; she clears her throat, then storms ahead with the news I so do not want to hear: "Uh, well, yes, Rosey Posey, you did." Raises her waxed eyebrows as she informs me of this less—than-stellar performance of mine, then hesitates.

"Mary Alice Cullen, you know who I barfed on, don't you?"

"Ye-aah, Rosalie, I do." Glances out towards the street, at the kids throwing snowballs at each other on the lawn of the building across the street from ours.

"And this lucky recipient of my stomach would be?"

"Emmett."

"Emmett?"

"Yeah, his name is Emmett McCarty".

"And who is Emmett McCarty?"

Alice and Bella try to smile at me in unison as Alice informs me just who Emmett McCarty is.

"He's your date next Saturday."

Emmett McCarty: Edward and Jasper's new roommate, the man I apparently called "Monkey Man" among other things last night, the man who is my date for the Christmas Ball next weekend.

Fuck. Me.

Ridiculous.

##

"Oh no. No no nononono" I groan, curling up into the fetal position on our Bauhaus couch, the one with the purple and blue print that we bought on sale last spring, the one that's the perfect Sunday afternoon nap couch.

"I can't do it. I can't go out with him. How can I face him? Oh Jesus..." my voice trails off as I realize that, once again, I have managed to fuck things up, male-wise.

"Rosalie, why not call him up and apologize? I'm sure Emmett would be cool with it, he might surprise you."

Bella is sitting next to me, rubbing my back, comforting me. Alice sits to my left, offers me a steaming mug of Earl Gray tea, my favorite, then pulls my long blonde hair back from my face, running her fingers through the knots and snarls, her touch as soft as my mom's when she did that when I was a little girl.

I'm so damned lucky to have two best friends who put up with my fucked up self; I don't deserve them, not at all.

"I can't Bella, he'll laugh at me, probably hang up."

"Do it Rosalie. Have some faith."

Where did that phone appear from; I swear Alice is taking conjuring lessons from Jasper. She nudges the receiver into my left hand as I watch her perfectly manicured right index finger punch in the guys' number to the cordless phone in that cozy old apartment of theirs over in Little Italy, off Murray Hill Road.

The phone rings once, twice, three times. I'm just about to hang up, when I hear it being picked up as the sound of a backpack hits the shiny hardwood floor, followed by the muttered 'shit!' as a table leg meets a human shin.

"Yeah? Hello?"

I gulp; it's Monkey Man.

"Go on, Rosalie, talk to him!" Alice whispers to me, poking me in the ribs.

"Ow! Cut it out Alice!"

"Cut what out?"

Shit. Monkey Man heard that.

"Uh, hello. Is, uh Emmett there?" This is Doofus McDuck calling.

"Speaking. Who is this?"

"Umm, Rosalie Hale."

There's a split second of silence that's broken by the loudest, hardiest laugh I have ever heard emanate from anybody.

"Rosary? Rosary F'n Hale? That Rosary?"

Rosary? Wha?

Oh, yeah, that Rosary, who would be me.

"Uh, yeah. That Rosalie."

And despite myself I can feel just the slightest smile starting at the corners of my mouth. Alice and Bella are leaning over me, trying to hear Emmett's side of the conversation. I bat them away, hitting Bella square in the eye, causing her to yell "Fuck!" before falling off the couch, much to Alice's delight.

"How ya feeling Rosary F'n Hale? Better?"

"Uh, yeah, a little."

"Oh, that's good. So, what's cookin'?"

I barf over your shoes and your jeans, insult you but yet you talk to me like nothing happened? Are you for real, Emmett McCarty?

"Well, Emmett, I just wanted to call and say I'm sorry for barfing on you and your Nikes last night."

"Hell, Rosary, that's okay, shit happens. I'd be lying if I said I'd never worshiped at the altar of the Great White Porcelain God myself." I swear I can see his smile, and I've never really seen his face, except as a great black smear against the pretty white pressed-tin ceiling.

And God help me, but I have this brief vision of looking up at another white ceiling, over there off Murray Hill Road, with his face smiling down at me, as I lay beneath him, laughing and kissing him, under a worn quilt in a warm and happy double bed.

What in the hell, where'd that come from? Jeez, maybe Jasper is giving Alice lessons on mood enhancement or something. Maybe he is a wizard disguised as a grad student.

"Yeah, well, I'm really sorry Emmett, I usually don't drink like that and well, I'd like to make it up to you. What size shoe do you wear?" to which I hear Alice and Bella start guffawing into their hands, literally rolling on our hardwood floors as Alice mutters "oh my fucking Gawd, did she really ask for his shoe size, what next, how big is your ding dong? Gaaa!" to Bella, who is doing the same, and actually crying, she's laughing so hard.

I throw my hand over the mouthpiece, hiss "Shut up ya pervs!" at them, hoping Emmett didn't hear any of this completely immature conversation.

But I have to admit I was wondering the same, exact thing.

"Rosalie? You there?"

"Uh, yeah Emmett. Sorry, I got distracted."

Glare at both of them while I make that shushshushshush hand gesture at the pair of them, still holding their stomachs, legs curled up, trying not to pee themselves.

"Tell you what, forget the shoes. How about you buy me lunch? You work downtown, right, at Higbee's? How about we meet for lunch Monday, and we'll call it square. I'll come pick you up, sound good?"

Sound good? Sounds frickin' great!

"Sure. I take lunch from one to two. That work for you?"

"I work right by you, so that's perfect."

"Uh, what kind of food do you like? 'Cause if you like burgers, there's a great place in the Old Arcade that I love going to, they have the best Jalapeno cheeseburgers in town."

"I'm all carnivore Rosary, that sounds like a plan. See ya Monday!"

"Okay Emmett. Oh, and Emmett?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm truly sorry about last night."

What I really want to say is "I'm truly sorry for being a bitch and you sound like a great guy and I hope I don't scare you off."

"Already forgotten Rosalie. See ya then."

Click.

I sit back on the couch, my massive head trauma of a headache magically erased, plus my stomach doesn't feel like the elephant parade from the Shrine Circus has been performing a tap dance on it anymore.

Instead, I feel...happy and relieved.

And find that I'm really looking forward to lunch on Monday with Emmett.

Alice and Bella are positively beaming at me, grinning like a pair of jacktard windowlickers as they perch on the opposite sides of the couch from me.

"So girls, what say we head over to Westgate for some retail therapy?" I throw out, since I feel so much better and I know how much those two little words can transform Alice into a whirling dervish of happiness.

"Rock on, Hale" Bella replies, jumping up and grabbing her coat off the rocking chair in the corner by the stereo as Alice beats a trail to the front door, her purple swing jacket already over her shoulders, stuffing her black-capped Chickadee of a noggin into a pink knit cap that she knit last year; copied if from some ad in Vogue, you never know she had made it herself, it was so well done, unlike my sorry attempts at knitting.

As we leave the parking garage behind our building, I can't help but sing along with my two best friends as we mangle yet another Michael Stanley Band classic:

I don't know why I came here tonight  
I don't know how this all got started...  
I'm so tired of not being right--  
Of being one of the broken-hearted

I don't even know your name  
But, Darling, just the same...

Whoever you are, I'm falling in love again  
... falling in love again  
Whoever you are, I'm falling in love again  
... falling in love again...

Fuck. Me.

Ridiculous.

##

I was so nervous and excited Monday morning, I nearly peed myself like a little girl as I watched the hands of the clock behind the counter holding the rolls of silver and white wrapping paper as they silently ticked away the minutes until I finally met Emmett.

Doofus McIdiot was in fine form this morning, working the line of drape climbers anxiously waiting until it was their turn to ask Mister Jingeling for a football or air rifle or some Barbie mansion monstrosity they'd play with once or twice and then leave scattered about their sterile suburban bedrooms, forgotten and abandoned.

How Earl Keyes managed to keep a smile on his face for hours as he listened to their pleas and, more often than not, their terrified screams as their clueless mothers plopped their offspring onto his lap was beyond me, but he seemed to genuinely enjoy it; he'd had this gig for ages, starting back when Halle's was still around.

Hell, I sat in his lap, back when I was a little girl; I distinctly remember asking him for a unicorn, a pretty sparkly white one, with a long tail and mane, his answer of 'Well, Rosalie, that's a tall order. I'll pass that wish onto Santa, see what we can do."

And you know what? He must have gotten that wish of mine to the big guy, since that Christmas morning there was a unicorn waiting for me under our Christmas tree, a beautiful porcelain unicorn, which I cherish to this day. She sits on my dresser and I christened her Nessie of all the names in the world.

Ridiculous.

##

We were so busy that morning, I'd barely had time to think, much less keep stealing glances at the clock, so when I looked up and saw Doofus McIdiot standing in front of the counter, garbed in an old, beat up olive green army jacket with Ondo stenciled on the name strip, I just about leapt out of my pumps.

"Uh, can I help you?" Mister Hardy Har Har...

"You sure can. Ready?"

"Ready? Ready for what?"

Hardy Har Har wrinkles up the right side of his mouth his eyes a mixture of confusion and are those sparkles?

What the hell?

This can't be, no fucking way, oh no...

"Our lunch date Rosary. Did you forget, 'cause I sure didn't, I've been looking forward to this all weekend".

Emmett McCarty, the man I hurled on, the man I've been mentally rolling my eyes at for the past two weeks, Mister Jingeling's chief elf, is my lunch date.

Fuck. Me.

Ridiculous.

##

"Oh, uh no, I didn't". I gulp as I gaze up at the most amazing eyes I've ever seen; he has flecks of amber in his irises, so beautiful, and that face, oh My God, I've never seen a guy that looks so handsome and so normal at the same time.

"You're Emmett? Edward and Jasper's roommate?"

The wrinkle breaks into a full-on smile drawing me in like it's a black hole, and I'm completely unable to resist it's magnetic pull.

"The very one. Didn't know I worked here, did you?"

"No, I didn't." What the hell, I can't believe this is the same guy.

We stand there staring at each other, like we're the first people on the frickin' earth or something.

"I got your coat for you". Hands over my blue wool coat, taking the green scarf Bella knit for me last Christmas out of the left arm; waits for me to pass around the counter so he can help me into it.

Well, damn. Royce never did that for me. Score one point for Monkey Man.

"Gee, thanks Emmett, that's so nice of you".

"I aims to please, ready Rosary?"

I'd usually sling back some snide remark after that 'Rosary' comment, but something in me clicked; like a page in the craptacular book that had been my love life up to this point had been torn from its binding, wadded up and tossed into the trash. So I didn't.

"Sure, does lunch at the Arcade still sound good?"

Shoves his hands in his pockets, after pulling a black wool cap on his close-cropped head.

"You bet. Lead the way, Rosalie". Pointing me towards the escalator with his right hand, so gallant, it makes me giggle.

And love that he did that with me.

Ridiculous.

##

I love the Arcade: It's my very favorite place in the world. When I was a little girl, I told my mom that I wanted my wedding there. She laughed and told me that I had great taste, and that she knew I would look beautiful standing on the worn marble steps in my wedding dress, my handsome Prince Charming standing next to me.

"Wow, this place is amazing Rosalie. I've never been here before, thanks for suggesting this."

"My pleasure. I love it here."

"I can see why".

We're sitting on the lower level, in the far right corner, just outside of DB's Burgers, watching the mix of holiday shoppers in from Fairview Park and Seven Hills and Garfield Heights, and the more hurried pace of the downtown lunch crowd as they attempt to combine lunch and commerce in the one precious hour they're allotted each workday.

"So, uh, Emmett, I apologize again about Friday night. I feel like a total idiot about that." I look down at my Jalapeño burger as I say this, terrified to look into those amber-flecked eyes, completely mortified over my performance on his nice new Nikes.

Emmett chews his mouthful of burger and peppers as I say this, and does that "I have a mouth full of food but I'm laughing" sound, shakes his head back and forth, then swallows.

"No problem Rosalie. Shit happens." It sure does, and it always seems to happen to me I think to myself.

"So tell me Rosalie, what do you think about that AFC Championship game? Think your Brownies got jobbed? I sure do".

Oh. My. God. He's speaking my language: Cleveland Browns football.

"Boy, do I, and I'll tell you why, it's like this..."

And from there I go on about Bernie Kosar, and The Kick and The Drive and how excited the city was before that game; about the Browns and their remarkable season, and how it felt like somebody had died, when I drove us girls back to our apartment from Mike Newton's place in The Carlyle, up on the twenty-third floor, overlooking downtown; how quiet and dejected we were.

I watch Emmett's face as I prattle on and on about that season; watch as his eyes never waver, even when he's taking another bear-size bite of his meal.

His eyes never leave mine.

Before I knew it, our time was up, and we were headed back to Higbee's to finish up our shift when I realized that he hadn't said a word the entire time; just sat there, watching me.

With that amazing smile of his never leaving his gloriously open and happy face.

Ridiculous.

In a really good way.

##

We had lunch together every day for the rest of that week, same meal, same table.

Emmett told me about growing up an only child in Tennessee; of playing football from pee-wees through high school, earning a football scholarship to Notre Dame, where he met Edward, who tutored him in Biology so he wouldn't lose his spot on the team.

How'd they'd clicked as friends, even though Edward could be, in his words, "wound up so tight he could shit out diamonds, he could never understand it". Then let out one of those huge belly laughs of his, making my toes curl up in happiness.

Why Edward had never brought Emmett home on break before I'd never know, but I did know that he'd be hearing about it from me this weekend.

"So why med school Emmett?"

Chews on his dill pickle, scrunching up his mouth at its tart, bitter taste.

"Grizzly".

"Come again?"

Swallows his bite of pickle, tosses the rest on his Styrofoam plate.

"Grizzly bear. I got between a sow and her cubs Elk hunting. She nearly killed me; took a good chunk of my scalp off before my cousin Tanya took a shot at her, scaring her off."

"Oh Jesus, Emmett. How horrible."

"Yeah, it was pretty miserable. But the docs there in Colorado patched me up right, and that's when I decided I wanted to be one too."

I just can't imagine how frightening that was, feeling that hot, fevered breath and angry teeth clamping down on your fragile skull...

"How old were you when this happened?

"Nineteen. Missed a year of college, that's why I had Edward as my tutor." Cleans off his paws with his napkin, smiles again. "Best thing that happened to me, actually".

"How so?"

"Made me appreciate what I had, how lucky I was to be alive. I've never forgotten that day, Rosalie. I never will."

"I bet. What kind of doctor do you want to be?"

"Pediatrician. I got to help out in the hospital with some of the kids in the Peds unit, showed them my scars, told them about my experience and that if I could survive that, they could survive what they were going through. I love kids, I want a whole little tribe of my own."

"Me, too" I whisper back to him. He's too good to be true, I can't believe this guy.

Emmett stands up, holds out his right hand to me, helping up me from my chair. I place my hand in that massive, well, paw of his, and smile up at him.

We walked back to work hand in hand, swinging our arms and smiling at each other. Chatted about my love of cars and computers, and his coaching a football team next fall for Special Olympics, and would I like to help him out with that.

"Sure, I'd be happy to, sounds like fun".

Who is this new girl, I'd never think of doing something like that before, I'd be creeped out by those kids.

Ridiculous.

Well, maybe not.

##

During lunch on Friday, we discussed our double date with Bella and Edward, coordinating rides and making dinner plans beforehand.

"I gotta be honest with you Emmett, I'm not big on MSB".

"Me neither, I said yes to Edward just so I could meet you outside of work".

Well. Fuck. Me.

"Really? Wow." I'm speechless.

"I'm more into Zeppelin and Def Leppard and, uh, don't tell the guys, but I really like Duran Duran and Culture Club."

I laugh at his admission. God, I really like this guy, we love the same music and that's when it happens.

The bell.

So faint, I thought I was imagining it, but I heard it, plain as day.

You're going to marry this man, Rosalie F'n Hale. He's your Prince Charming, in the guise of a mountain of a man.

"Whatcha smilin' about Rosie?"

Shake my head at Emmett's voice.

"Huh? Oh, uh, sorry, just had a thought."

"About me?" Raises his eyebrows, hopefully.

"Absolutely." And shoot him the biggest grin I've ever grinned.

Ridiculous.

##

Compared to the previous weekend, this one was an unqualified success.

For one, I didn't get bombed and hurl over any part of Emmett. Nor did I insult him or need to be pulled or carried down the street.

Instead I stood next to Emmett in the packed and sweaty Cleveland Agora, letting him hold me next to him by his left arm, as we took pulls from our Bud long-necks, listening to the over-wrought performance of our least favorite band, ever.

Emmett looked over towards the stage, where Edward and Bella stood, both bobbing their heads in time to the music, holding hands and mouthing the words to the song.

Edward glanced over at us, raised his bottle of Bud yelling, "Hey, these guys are pretty good!" and laughed.

Emmett looked down at me, smiling like a big old Grizzly bear as he brought his face down towards me, our lips barely apart as I closed my eyes in anticipation of our first kiss.

His lips brushed against mine, barely skimming the surface; I breathed in his scent, all woodsy and flannel and of man, my man.

Before our lips met in earnest, I felt Emmett's grin as he shook his head slightly, and heard his response to Edward's appreciation of the awful spectacle performing on the narrow stage.

"Ridiculous."

**A/N: I wrote this O/S to stretch my writing chops, and to remember a time in my life when there was so much possibility awaiting me.**

**The apartment the girls live in is modeled after my first flat– a wonderful old Tudor apartment building on Kenilworth Avenue in Lakewood, Ohio. The Kenilworth is an actual bar, and does have both a bar bowling machine and a beautiful white pressed tin ceiling; unlike Rosalie, I never barfed on anyone there, at any time.**

**The Michael Stanley Band was a stalwart of the local band scene in Cleveland, Ohio from the mid-70's to late-80's; boosted by WMMS-FM, the predominant FM station during those years, they were the hottest band in the area at that time. Personally, I think they sucked – smarmy lyrics, mullets and jackets; I was more into the punk/alternative scene, and as such used them as an example of who I think the Twilight girls would be into, if they were human – except Alice, whom I think would have fit in just fine with the crowd at The Phantasy Theatre and Nightclub in Lakewood.**

**Mister Jingeling was the creation of Frank Jacobi, an ad agency president who created the character in 1956 to promote toys sold at Halle's Department Store in Cleveland. From 1956 to 1982, when Halle's closed its doors, Mister Jingeling held court on Halle's seventh floor, acting as Santa's "Keeper of the Keys" to Santa's Treasure House of Toys. Earl Keyes, a local actor, took over the roll of Mister Jingeling in 1965 until he retired in 1995.**

**I remember sitting on Mister Jingeling's lap; however while I did not ask him for a unicorn I couldn't tell you what I requested, but I'm sure it was something my mother rolled her eyes at.**


End file.
